


It Wasn't Meant To Be Real

by chancellorclarke



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:18:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5219402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chancellorclarke/pseuds/chancellorclarke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of separating at the end of Season 3, the Machine gives Root and Shaw new identities as a married couple. Slow burn where they have to adjust to living with each other and their changing relationship.</p><p>Set at the beginning of S4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Wasn't Meant To Be Real

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be for Shoot week....woops.

“You can’t be serious.”

Root tries to hide her grin behind her coffee cup as she leads them through the busy streets of New York. She knows she shouldn’t be smiling, because there really isn’t anything to be smiling about. They lost the battle: They failed to stop Greer. Samaritan is now online, His army of agents is growing larger, and they’re becoming more outmatched and outnumbered by the minute. The only reason they’re alive right now is because The Machine came up with a last minute contingency plan to keep them alive, one that involved Her giving them new aliases.

Permanent aliases.

“I am,” Root tries to say earnestly, though she’s still unable to keep the grin off her face.

Shaw’s face contorts painfully, staring down at her mint new passport, her duffle bags heavy on both her shoulders. “Why did The Machine have to give me this identity? Why couldn’t she find me another?”

If Root didn’t know any better, she’d be offended. Surely there were worse covers to come by. After all, Finch is now Harold Whistler, a university professor. If Shaw had been given that, she would’ve blown her cover by the first week due to boredom. Reese is now Detective John Riley, a narcotics detective. While Root has an inkling Shaw would’ve loved that alias, it would’ve been entirely too dangerous to give to Shaw for Root’s liking. They’re already on Samaritan’s radar and being hunted down by His agents. Root really didn’t need to worry about Shaw being in a constant line of fire on top of being on the run from Samaritan. This identity that The Machine had given to Shaw, however, is simple. Safe. Ordinary as Sameen Grey, a cosmetic counter girl at Bloomingdales, working minimum wage.

Married to Samantha Grey.

Root pouts, crossing the street when the lights turn green. “I’m not that bad to be married to.”

Shaw scoffs as she follows Root’s lead. “I beg to differ.”

Root gives her a look then. “It was either this, or a single nanny.”

It takes a second for Shaw to register Root’s words, but when she does, Root watches in amusement as realization dawns on Shaw’s face. The pained look, the furrow of her eyebrows - Shaw’s staring back at her in horror, as though she can’t believe that being a nanny was an actual possibility for her, and Root immediately covers her mouth with her free hand, tries to keep herself from laughing loudly at the situation. She fails miserably, though, and muffled giggles slip through her hand and to Shaw’s ears.

Shaw groans in both frustration and helplessness. “Samaritan’s only been online for three hours and my life’s already gone to shit.”

“Look on the bright side,” Root flirts through her laughs, bumping her shoulder against to Shaw’s, only to earn herself a harsh glare. “At least you still have me.”

Shaw gives her a look that can only be described as “are you kidding me?” but Root returns it with a cheeky smile. Shaw looks down at the pavements then, grumbling in discontent but doesn’t say anything else. Root doesn’t push her further, and they walk beside each other in silence, their boots clicking through the wet pavement and under the glow of the streetlights, drowned by the hoots and hollers of loud drunks as they pass by an open bar. Normally that’d annoy her, but tonight, she walks through the noise unfazed. Because tonight, they survived. They survive to fight another day. And that's-that's a starting point. And none of Samaritan’s operatives seem to have been alerted of their whereabouts yet, which means the chips must be working. They're nobodies now: Sameen and Samantha Grey.

Which means there’s hope. There’s still a chance. It’s not much, but it’s something.

She makes a left as Shaw follows closely behind her.

“Things can’t possibly get any worse,” Shaw mumbles beside her.

“Oh, you don’t know that,” Root placates, walking up the stairs of a renovated stoop and taking out a set of keys from her back pocket. “The war’s only just begun.”

Shaw side-eyes her. “Pep talk? Not your forte.”

“Noted,” Root says, inserting one of the keys in the door lock.

“Why’re we here, anyway? In the Upper East Side?”

Root doesn’t answer immediately. She hums as she unlocks the door, twisting the knob. It's then that she pauses, looks back at Shaw for a moment, as though she’s waiting to do her big reveal.

“Well?” Shaw asks impatiently.

Root gives her a toothy grin before pushing the door open, an expansive living room greeting them. She turns to Shaw and announces proudly:

“Our apartment!”

Shaw’s face falls, as though her day just got impossibly worse, and immediately heads back down the stairs.

“Forget it,” she says, harshly. "I’m moving into the subway station.”

“Sameen,” Root scolds. “If we don’t share a place together, Samaritan would know something’s wrong.”

Shaw stops in her tracks. She stands there, her back towards Root.

“We have to act our part,” Root continues. “You know this.”

With a deep sigh, Shaw stomps back up the stairs and pushes past Root, through the threshold of their apartment. Root quickly follows behind her and closes the door.

“I’m taking this room,” Shaw grumbles petulantly, dropping her things inside the master bedroom.

“But that’s the only bed in the apartment.”

“Tough,” Shaw says, without an ounce of care in her voice. “Take the couch. I’m not sharing a bed with you.”

Root rolls her eyes at Shaw’s petulance. “That’s no way to treat your wife.”

Shaw straightens her posture, bristled. “Out _there_ ,” Shaw points, “we may be married, but in here, we’re not. You’re not my wife, you’re just a pain in my ass.”

Root quirks up. “I’ve upgraded from intestinal parasite to a pain in your ass. We’re getting somewhere, aren’t we?”

“I’m going to bed,” Shaw grunts, effectively ending their conversation, and slams the door closed, the vibrations echoing through the living room.

Root's left in the living room, alone. She reaches into her coat pocket, fiddling with the box in it, her gaze still on Shaw's door. After a few minutes, she finally pulls it out.

It's black box. One that contains Shaw's wedding ring. She stares at it for a moment, debating whether or not to knock on Shaw’s door to hand it to her. It's stupid for her to think this hard about this, because it doesn't _matter_. In the files, they're married. As long as they act like they get along when they're in front of Samaritan's cameras, their covers will be intact. The ring that she handpicked for Shaw... it wasn't-it wasn't necessary. It doesn't mean anything. It  _shouldn't_ mean anything.

Root's heart lurches uncomfortably.

(She  _wants_ it to mean something.)

In the end, she doesn’t knock. Instead, she decides to leave it on the floor in front of Shaw’s door, scribbles down a note to go along with it, one that says: “For safety measures. - Root.”

Because to Shaw, this is just their cover.

Nothing more.

Root heads to the closet and grabs the extra set of thin blankets. She moves to the couch and unruffles the sheets, tries to get a good night’s rest before the sun rises.

**  
**  


*

**  
**  


An alarm goes off. Beeping and annoying and _loud_.

Root groans, covers her good ear with the pillow as she burrows deeper into the couch. It’s early. Way, way too early. The sun’s not even up yet, the street lights are still on, The Machine hadn’t alerted her to wake up, there’s no smell of coffee that She would’ve turned on every morning.

She’s up. She’s awake when she doesn’t have to be awake, and it annoys her.

“Turn it off,” Root complains as loudly as she can, her voice meek from sleep.

The beeping stops, and she’s relieved.

She hears the door open-creaking and loud-and hears Shaw mutter, “Big baby.”

“Shut up,” Root tries to counter, but it comes out as an incoherent mumble of: “Shuh-up.”

She doesn’t hear Shaw respond, which means she could only assume that Shaw’s rolling her eyes. She doesn’t know for sure, though, her eyes are still shut tight, her face facing the inside of the couch.

“Would’ve never made it as a Marine,” Root faintly hears Shaw say.

Root lets out an uncommitted grunt in response, shifts to find a more comfortable position. She hears footsteps walk farther away from her, the sound of the front door opening. The cold morning air rushes through, and she suddenly feels a shiver run through her body. She wraps her arms around herself out of instinct, runs her hands up and down her arms. The door closes then, and Root thinks that Shaw left.

Her mind drifts again, and her head becomes hazy. On the precipice of sleep, she feels herself slowly lose consciousness when she suddenly hears a faint sigh, footsteps walking through the apartment. She doesn’t know if she’s imagining it or not, but can't be bothered to open her eyes. After a moment, she hears footsteps walk closer to her again, and then feels a duvet blanketed over her body.

“Pain in the ass,” she hears Shaw whisper to herself, before hearing the front door open again and then close.

A soft smile graces Root's lips, and she wraps herself in the warmth of the duvet before succumbing to sleep.

**  
**  


 


End file.
